Time
by Grabbag Lapidary
Summary: Set post Captain America. Steve Rogers visits Tony Stark with an unusual request he nevertheless manages to sort of fulfil. A vision of how they might meet.


**A/n :** This was just an idea that came to me after watching the new _Captain America : The First Avenger_ movie and so;

i) I wrote it in kind of a hurry to get it out while the movie was still "fresh".

ii) It's "movieverse" - specifically, the Chris Evans Cap and RDJ Ironman.

iii) Spoilers, maybe?

This was written the week _Captain America_ came out in theaters, and is based on nothing more than that movie, the two Ironman movies, and the teaser trailer at the end of Cap. So, really, based on nothing more than speculation. It is a version of how Rogers & Stark might meet, and will likely become completely obsolete by the time _The Avengers_ movie comes out in 2012 (the teaser trailer which just hit suggests this is DEFINITELY the case!)

I've tried to make Cap a man out of his time here – and there might be a couple of references which are difficult for modern ears to hear.

There is a reference in here to _Watchmen_, for those of you looking for it, but it is about as obscure as the first Human Torch cameo in _Captain America_.

Please enjoy! Read and review!

**Time**

The wheel of the Los Angeles taxi crunched as it came to a stop on the manicured gravel of the ostentatious Malibu home imperiously overlooking the Pacific from atop the bluff of Point Dume. The rear door opened and a blond man wearing an immaculate US Army Class A Dress Uniform stepped from the back seat. He was tall and well-made, muscular beneath the crisp blue cloth. On his broad chest an impressive rainbow-barcode of decoration glittered. He set his beret on his head before reaching for his wallet.

The slender, elegant redheaded woman clacking on her expensive heels and sweating inside her bespoke suit in the California heat overhead the solider exclaim, "How much?" as she walked from the front door of the house towards him. He shook his head, pulling bills out of his wallet. "And here I was thinking I was rich," he said ruefully.

"Captain," the woman said politely. The solider turned and snapped precisely to attention, touching his brow in a salute. "You should have called, sir," she offered. "We'd have sent a car."

The blonde man blinked a couple of times, taking in the wasp-waisted figure cinched in the beautifully tailored clothes, the hair pinned and lacquered up, the crisp accent. "You don't need to call me 'sir', ma'am," he said eventually.

"You work for a living?" she asked with a smile.

He inclined his head. "Just a soldier, ma'am," he explained. "And, about the car, thank you, ma'am. I didn't think." He looked down at the bills in his hand. "Everything seems pretty expensive nowadays," he said softly.

"It is out here," she agreed. She stepped forward and paid the taxi driver, gesturing him away. "I'm surprised S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't offer you transport."

The soldier shook his head. "Oh, no, ma'am – they did. Special flight. I was just trying to save Uncle Sam's dime, you know? This is a personal trip." He glanced back at the departing car. "And, about the taxi; thank you, ma'am, but you didn't need to do that, ma'am."

She shrugged. "I guess not. But I did it anyway. And you don't need to call me 'ma'am'; I'm Virginia Potts. My friends call me Pepper."

He held out his hand. "Captain Steve Rogers."

She smiled. "I know," she said, "I've seen the newsreels." She gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

oOo

"Captain Steve Rogers to see you, Mister Stark," said Pepper softly as she stepped through the door the soldier held open for her. From the sofa her boss stood up, holding a chunky glass heavy with scotch. He glanced at his right hand before wiping it on his grease-stained T-shirt and holding it out.

"A pleasure, Mister Stark," said the soldier. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

The engineer looked over his shoulder with exaggerated care, and then peered around the Captain as if to see if someone else had come through the door with him. Satisfied no-one had, he looked up at the soldier. "My dad's not here," he reminded him. "My name's Tony."

The soldier smiled, but there was pain there. "Steve," he said.

Tony nodded and gestured at the couch. "You want a drink?" he asked, tinkling the ice in his glass. Steve did not appear to hear him, sitting very straight-backed on the edge of the chair and looking around him in wonder.

"I knew your father," he remarked, almost to himself.

Now it was Tony's turn to smile painfully. "I wish I could say the same," he said softly.

The Captain's head snapped up. "He was an Irish immigrant, he died when I was . . ." He saw the look on Tony's face. "Oh, I see. I am sorry, Mister Stark."

"_Tony_," he said firmly. "And I wish I'd known your dad too." He lifted the glass again. "A drink?"

Steve nodded. "A Coca-Cola, please – if you have it," he said. Pepper immediately broke what was a passable parade-ground-ease and started for a fridge set discretely into the wall. She stopped with her hand on a can when Steve spoke again. "Tried to get one in the airport, but it came in a tin like Spam or something." He sensed the woman's immobility and looked up and blushed. "I'm sure it'll be just fine, if that's how it comes nowadays, Miss Potts," he said contritely.

Tony looked at him carefully and stood up. "Come with me," he said, leading the way down the stairs to his workshop.

oOo

Steve watched, fascinated, as the soda and syrup frothed into the tall glass and Tony stirred it carefully with a long spoon. "You'll have to tell me if it tastes right," he cautioned. "The formula's secret and reverse-engineering from the residue in the pipes isn't an exact science."

The Captain took a tentative sip, admiring the gleaming chrome surfaces of the soda fountain in Tony's basement workshop. "Where'd you find it?" he asked.

"Junk shop," said Tony shortly. "Guess it must have been in a drugstore that got torn down. It made an interesting restoration project, you know? You can buy the syrups today, but it's not quite the same – doesn't work as well with these old machines." He gestured at Steve's glass. "Good?"

The soldier smiled and nodded. "Yes, very. Thank you. Tastes just like I remember it."

Tony perched himself on the edge of a bench busy with miniaturized components and lengths of twisted wire. "What did you want to see me about?" he asked seriously. "The cyclops won't have wanted us to meet like this."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't know I'm here," said Steve slowly. Tony shook his head.

"I doubt that," he grinned. "Fury sees a lot with that one eye of his."

"He's very intelligent for a negro," Steve admitted guilelessly. Tony winced.

"Yeah . . ." he said. "Let's talk about that later, okay?" Steve nodded blithely. Tony blinked, resetting the conversation. "But he's so used to me doing my own thing he'll be angry with me, not you. Did you just come here to get a fountain Coke?"

Steve looked uncertain and considered. "I guess I thought you could help me," he said finally.

Tony nodded. "I might be able to," he admitted. "What did you want?"

Steve got up from the stool in front of the soda fountain and walked aimlessly around the workshop. "I knew your father," he said again. He stopped in front of the quiescent Mark I armor mockup, looking the huge suit levelly in the empty eyes.

"What was he like?" asked Tony. He had time enough for a man out of his, and for a man who didn't have any more.

Steve thought for long moments. "Big," he said eventually. "Larger than life. He was clever, very clever, sure of himself. Generous with his time." He turned back to Tony. "Knew how to dress," he said with a smile.

"So did you come to talk about my dad?" Tony asked. "I'm more than happy to – I'd love to, actually. But you came all this way, not me."

"Director Fury tells me you're as clever as your father, cleverer, maybe – certainly you can do more. Maybe that's the new technology?" He shrugged. "I don't know. Your dad could build some amazing stuff, but this . . ." He gestured at the gleaming crimson and gold suits. He shook his head. "This is something else." Tony thought he understood.

"So what can I build for you?" he asked. "If you let me take a look at it, I can probably improve on the shield. Certainly make you better armor." He grinned. "I'm kind of known for that."

Steve shook his head. "No, nothing like that," he said. "No weapons."

"Then what?" asked Tony. "A vehicle? Communications? Milkshake dispenser?"

Steve looked up. "I want you to build me a time machine," he said seriously.

oOo

Tony tapped the tip of a small screwdriver against his teeth. "A time machine," he said slowly.

Steve nodded, reaching inside his jacket. He drew a carefully folded comic book out of his pocket, flattening its four-color simplicity out on the workbench. "They reprint these, you know?" he explained. "Cost more than a dime these days," he added ruefully, "but I'm gonna be able to catch up on the stuff I missed."

"Should have kept yours," murmured Tony, flipping through the reissue of _Tales of the Black Freighter_. "Worth a lot of money these days." He reached the B-story at the back of the pamphlet. "Ah," he said, "Wells".

Steve looked a little embarrassed. "Yeah," he laughed, "but I don't mean it has to look like this." He gestured at the lacquered wicker chair surmounted with dials and gauges. "I just brought this as an example."

Tony nodded judiciously and rubbed his chin with his hand. "You know this doesn't end well, right?" he asked. Steve shrugged.

"I'm not asking you to make Morlocks."

"You haven't seen my labor relations," Tony quipped. "Look," he said, raising his hand to stop Steve's objections. "time machines . . . don't work. Lots of theories, nothing practical." He looked into the young man's disappointed face. "There's a reason they make comic books about that sort of thing – because it doesn't exist."

"They made comic books about me," said Steve in a very small voice. "I just want . . ."

"I know what you want," said Tony. "You want to be able to turn back the clock, to go back to a place where things were simpler, a place you understand. I sympathize, but I can't help you."

"Can't," asked Steve, "or won't?"

"Can't!" exclaimed Tony. "'Can't', as in 'I can't do it'. As in, 'It's beyond me'. As in 'I'm unable to'. Even if the theories were complete – which they aren't – and even if we had a proof-of-concept device – which we don't, not even to move an atom let alone a conscious macrorganism – I just don't have the power."

"What about that . . . thing in your chest?" asked Steve, gesturing nervously and with an air of repulsion at the glowing circle on Tony's sternum. "I thought that gave you all the power you needed." Tony shook his head.

"You're talking the energy put out by a star in its lifetime," he explained. "I don't have anything that can match that."

"What about . . . ?"

"No," interrupted Tony. "I can't burn out a star. And no," he continued quickly before Steve could ask his question again. "I mean I can't do that, not I won't."

"Would you?" asked Steve.

"Maybe," admitted Tony. "Why do you want to go live in the 1940s?"

Steve looked up at him with haunted eyes. "I don't," he said softly.

"Then what . . . ?"

"I had a date."

oOo

Tony sat Steve down on an empty cable drum and put a glass of scotch in his hand. He rummaged through the rags on the table, trying to find the least oil-stained. He offered it to him and Steve wiped his tears away with the cleanest corner. "I can't get drunk," he said bitterly, staring at the glass as if it had wronged him.

"You could at least try," Tony countered. He hooked a munitions crate closer and perched on it himself. Steve knocked back the glass of scotch and Tony dutifully refilled it.

"You think there'll be enough time, you know?" the soldier said. "That you'll always have time to say what you want to say, that there'll be a better time to tell someone something."

Tony nodded. "And then one day there isn't." He smiled. "Believe me, I know. I didn't at the time, but now . . . I'd build that time machine myself if I could."

"I just want to talk to her . . ." Steve said desperately. "Can you . . . ?" Tony shook his head. "Damnit," said Steve and swallowed his drink.

Tony refilled the glass again. "It just comes on you suddenly," he said. "One moment they are there and you have all the time in the world, and then the next they are gone and all the time with them. And you never get a chance . . ."

"I did have a chance!" Steve leaped to his feet and brought a massive fist crashing down on the workbench, denting the metal and making components and tools bounce to the floor. "It wasn't sudden and it wasn't one moment and then the next! I knew what was going to happen, and so did she, and we . . . we wasted the time we did have. We pretended it was all going to be alright." He gulped down his drink and slammed the glass on the tabletop. "I didn't have the courage to accept it was over."

Tony was silent for long moment. "I think . . ." he began.

Steve looked up at him when he didn't continue. "You think what?" he asked acidly.

Tony emptied the bottle into his glass. "I think you should drink more," he said. Steve snorted, but Tony was insistent. He gestured. "Come on, drink up – that's it." He walked to a cabinet on the wall and pulled out another bottle. He popped the cork and laughed.

"What's so funny?" asked Steve.

"Older than you," explained Tony, showing the faded label. He poured a healthy slug into the glass and then took it from Steve, handing the bottle to him. He lifted the glass, angling it for a toast. "To Howard Stark and Peggy Carter," he said.

Steve chinked the bottle against Tony's glass and lifted it to his lips, but stopped before he could drink. "How did you know . . . ?" he asked.

"I've seen the newsreels," Tony explained. "She was very beautiful, very sharp. I won't tell you there are more fish in the sea because . . . well, she was probably a shark among minnows." He considered. "And she'd be old enough to be my mother," he mused.

Steve lifted the bottle, gulping down the whisky. "For a while there, I thought she was going to be," he said.

"What . . . ?"

"Your father . . . great guy, handsome, confident, successful. When I first met him . . ." Steve corrected himself. "Well, no – not when I first met him. When I first met him I was a little distracted."

"Peggy was in the room?" grinned Tony.

"No, well, yes – but that's not it. It was the . . ." He gestured, searching for the world. "Procedure. Your father was controlling the machines – all these dials and knobs and things. Pretty impressive for a kid from Brooklyn, you know?" Tony leaned back, nodded and murmured to make Steve continue. "I suppose that wasn't the first time I saw him – I'd seen pictures, of course. But in the flesh. It was at the fair, he showed off a flying car."

"Did it work?" asked Tony.

Steve shook his head. "No – he said a couple of years." A thought struck him. "Do you have them?"

"Not for the mass market – too temperamental, and parking's a bitch."

Steve shrugged. "That's a shame. Anyway, your father had this chorus line on stage with him, real pretty girls. You know the type?"

Tony nodded. "I've got my own." Steve laughed.

"Well, I guess I just assumed he was good with the ladies, you know? Handsome, rich, you know the type."

Tony pretended to consider. "Pretty well," he admitted.

"And he was flirting with Peggy when he flew me behind enemy lines that first time in Italy, talking about fondue."

"It's melted cheese, bread," advised Tony. "A Swiss thing, like cuckoo clocks and Nazi gold." Steve looked at him, brows furrowed. Tony dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Forget it," he said. "Why was she nearly my mom?"

It seemed Steve thought it was obvious. "It just looked like they were together, you know? They were good friends, and he was always flirting with her. I was wrong," he assured Tony. "That's just how your father dealt with women, even ones like Peggy. She was . . . something else."

A thought struck Tony. "You hungry?" he asked abruptly. Steve's head snapped up. "I'm hungry, you hungry? That metabolism of yours needs fuel."

"I could eat," admitted the soldier.

"Great, so could I." He leaned behind him, toggled a button set into the desk. "Pepper? Lay out a suit for me, and get us a table at Swayze's. Private booth." He looked back at Steve. "You like steak? I like steak. New York strip, loaded potatoes, onion rings, big piece of apple pie to follow? Beer and coffee and talk about Peggy and my dad? How's that sound?"

Steve blinked once or twice. "That . . ." he began, his voice breaking. "That sounds really nice, actually."

"Great," said Tony, scooping a small box into his pocket. "Pepper, have Happy bring the Audi around." He glanced up at Steve. "You like German engineering?"

oOo

"Thanks," said Tony with a winning smile as he settled the bill. The waitress blushed and fiddled nervously with her hair. Her hand twitched like she was trying not to raise it. "The hand? Seriously?" asked Tony.

"We're not supposed to ask . . ." she said, "but could I . . . ?"

"Gimme the 'phone," said Tony, holding out his hand.

"Well," she stammered, "I really wanted with both of you – if you don't mind, Captain Rogers. I can get my friend, she's . . ."

Tony jerked the StarkPhone off her hip, pressed a few buttons. "Just let me set it on delay . . ." he muttered, fingers dancing over the touch screen.

"Erm, I don't think I have that prog . . ." she queried. "I mean, is there a prog for that?"

"Is now," said Tony. He balanced the 'phone against the salt shaker, got up and moved around to Steve's side of the table. "Shove over," he ordered, pushing the girl down next to him and sandwiching her between them. He peered over the girl's head at Steve. "If an IED goes off when the shutter snaps, I'm relying on you, okay?" he said.

"What?"

"What?"

"Oh, hey – the light's blinking. Everyone say 'Stark'!"

The 'phone flashed. Tony jumped up, scooping the girl up in one hand and the StarkPhone in the other. "I love these things," he said. "You know the new ones have repulsor technology in them?"

"Really?"

"No."

She giggled. "Thank you, Mister Stark. And thank you, Captain Rogers – for everything. I hope . . . I hope you like it here."

Steve looked puzzled. "It's a lovely restaurant – great steaks . . . oh, yes. It's . . . it's growing on me, miss. Thank you."

Tony slid back into his seat as the waitress left before her manager could notice her fraternizing. "Never be a public person," he advised.

"That advice comes seven decades too late," Steve said ruefully. Tony shrugged. "Thanks," Steve said seriously. "Thanks for listening to my war stories."

Tony brushed it off. "Thanks for telling me – I never knew my dad. I had no idea he was so involved in . . . well, so much. And Peggy was . . . well, she wasn't even a name until recently. Until I saw the newsreels, of course. Which reminds me . . ." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "I found this in my dad's things – a trunk Fury brought me from S.H.I.E.L.D." He pushed it over the table. "I didn't know what it was, well – what it is is obvious. It's . . ."

"It's my old compass," said Steve, opening the box. Tony nodded.

"I guess my dad was salvaging where the plane went down, trying to find you? Like I said, I didn't know what it was – I figured it might have been his. The saltwater had got to it and the paper backing to the dial had rotted. He'd not done anything with it – just kept it."

Steve flipped the compass open, looked inside the lid. "How did you . . . ?" he asked.

"I saw the newsreels – I suppose I might have seen them before, but I pulled them from the archives and watched them again. I realized what it was then, restored it. I thought I'd give it to you when Fury called us together, but then you came visiting." He held the compass and twisted it back and forth. The needle wiggled and Peggy's face turned slowly. "The newspaper clipping was gone, I'm afraid. That's a hologram – there were enough pictures of her in the archives to build a pretty good stereograph likeness."

"It's perfect," whispered Steve.

Tony smiled. "I'm just sorry I couldn't build you your time machine," he said.

Steve looked up at him. "You know," he answered, "I think you did."


End file.
